Everything Fills with Words
by Avice.cr
Summary: "I want to talk to you. Need to talk to you. I do. Constantly. - You reach out for me in your sleep. Notice I am not there. Your sleepy eyes search for me. Smile when they find me." POV Sherlock. M - for eventual slash.
1. Chapter 1

I want to talk to you. Need to talk to you. I do. Constantly.

I need to keep it inside me, but I do talk to you. It fills my days, my nights. _Remember what I've told you? Look, did you notice this?_ You answer. I want you to answer. Want to hear your voice. Need to hear it.

Want to see the dismay, the gentle reproach on your face, when I misbehave. When I do something that is not bit good. Please.

I do not beg. Never have. Did not think I ever would.

But then everything changed. I met you. Lost you.

I do not beg.

But I wish there was someone to beg to.

Only you.

I talk to you. Hear me. _Did you see that? What do you think of this?_ If you were here now, what would you say?

I know, don't I? I know what you would say. I know you. Don't I?

Never knew I wanted someone to understand. Never knew I needed you to understand.

Until everything changed.  
Until you said 'I don't even know your name.'

You know so much more.

Everything fills with words. My mind is cluttered, full of speech to you. I struggle to make room, to clear a space for myself, for my thoughts. For the work.

But the talk is everywhere. The things I must say to you crowd me.

Everything I see. Everything I hear. Every thought I think just creates more of it.

More things I need to tell you.

And when I lie down, eyes closed to process it all, to put everything in its place, even that, even that, I must tell you.

I cannot talk to you.

I take long walks in the woods. Run. To talk to you. When I know no one can hear me I can finally talk to you. Say your name. Your name! Tell you everything.

I beg you to answer. I beg you to tell me what you think.

No, I don't.

Because you're not there to beg to.

He says I'm losing it. Says he didn't think he could be more worried about me. He had thought that you would save me. Now he believes you will ruin me.

He is an idiot. I am tied to him. For now. He ruined my life. It does not matter. It would not matter. If there wasn't the talk.

I am bursting with it. And yet. There is the hollow.

Where you don't answer.

I did not need you. Did not need anybody. There was the work. There was nicotine. A violin. That was all. No need for anything more. For nothing, do you understand?

Now I need you.

I can contain it, the need. I can. Keep it in its place, step away from it. It works.

Except for the talk.

I talk to you. Constantly.

_Will you forgive me for what I've done?_ I know you will. I know it. You must. I know it.

You will understand why I did what I did. If you don't, no one will.

No one else needs to.

Only in the morning, when I'm groggy, the eyes unfocused, the mind muffled. When it's not light yet, but not dark either, only then do I question it. Only then I am. I am. Afraid. I am afraid that you will not forgive me. That you have moved on. That you will not understand me.

That I would be where I was. Alone. With the work, the nicotine, the violin. It would not be enough. It was plenty.

You do understand me, don't you? And you will forgive. I know it.

He says he is disappointed in me. He always is. I don't mind. I tell him nothing. He has his ways of finding out.

He tells me nothing. I have my ways of finding out.

He reminds me it's a weakness. An affliction. I say nothing. Later I tell you what I think. I am sure you would laugh.

Point out his failings, his mistakes. He shuts up. I smile to myself. _Let me share my smile with you._

_Did you notice the lipstick on the corner of the man's mouth? Did you see the way her left heel is more worn than the right one? Look, see the waiter? See what he did? Do you know what it means?_ Tell me. Say it. Please. Say it.

Did not know I wanted to hear it before you said it.

Now I need to hear it. From your lips. I need to see your lips when you say it. Please. Tell me.

Tell me what you think of me. Please.

How easy it would be to go on. And it is. If it wasn't for the talk.

_Remember the woman?_ I often think about her now. Not her. You. _Remember how you thought I was interested in her?_ I was. She was intelligent. Perceptive. She had made a profession out of knowing things and playing with people. I often wondered how come you didn't realise that's what intrigued me. Now I know.

It was fear. You were afraid that I did not understand you.

I often think about her now. Because she is the reason I know that you need me to understand you. Like I need you to. Like I need you.

I talk too much. Ramble. The paths intertwine, loop. I am where I started. I need to talk to you.

It's all right. I know you will understand. There are things I must do. Work. For me. For both of us.

I am sure you will understand. That you will wait. And when everything is ready, I will come to you. You will be angry.

But you will forgive me. Because you understand. I know it.


	2. Chapter 2

"John."  
My voice trembles, but you don't pay attention to it. You don't have time to.

You take a hold of the table, focus on your own reactions. You should calm down, but the deep, quick gasps you take rid you of too much of carbon dioxide. You start swaying. You manage to swear at me, when I tell you to slow down your breathing. You don't.

I catch you in time.

You're all right. Can't help smiling when you open your eyes and the first thing out of your mouth is another profanity. You're all right.

"Is it really you?" you ask.

It is me. You know it is.

"Are you all right?" I know you are. Why do I ask?

"Fine, fine. But what about you?"  
You stare at me amazed. You look happy.

"I'm fine."

"But how did you… what? How? How did you survive that fall?"

Are you all right? Can you really listen to all of this now? Would you… maybe you should rest first?

No, you insist.

I make you a cup of tea. I have so much to tell you. Why am I at a loss for words?

"You have to tell me everything. How can you be here?" you repeat.

You need me to tell you everything. I will.

I start at the roof top. _You remember the phone call?_

You do. You look away from me when you say that. Your eyes, they well up. I have hurt you.

Hurt you.

I feel sick.

I tell you what happened next. About Moriarty, about the fall. How I survived. How I ran.

Am not sure you listen when you stare at me dazed. Are you really all right?

"Yes, yes. Stop fussing."

I tell you all the things I have already told you. Many times. Countless times. Repeat everything. Just to hear your voice when you answer.

No, you didn't notice the lipstick or the heel. ("Sherlock, I wasn't there," you laugh.) Weren't you? How come?

But I talked to you.

"Amazing. Brilliant," you say when I tell you about the waiter.

Your words fill the hollow in me.

It has got dark. Only the glow of the streetlamp in your dingy little bedsit.

You haven't turned the lights on. Why? Because I am holding your hand tightly, can't let you go.

How long have I been talking? Hours. You don't mind.

"It's good to see you," you say. "It's good to hear you," you say.

I am hearing your words. Seeing your lips as you speak. I have never cried. Can't remember that I would have. You caress my cheek. It's wet.

I believe I have told you everything I needed to. For now. There is more, but – .

"It's late, Sherlock. Come on," you say.

Holding my hand you pull me to your bed. Take me in your arms. Wrap yourself around me like a blanket.

I shiver. Why? I am not cold.

You stroke my hair. Kiss the top of my head. I believe I am happier than I have ever been.

"Me, too," you mutter into me.


	3. Chapter 3

Wake up to the way my belt has dug into me. Get up, take off my trousers.

Your bed is narrow. How did we both fit in it?  
I don't know how to get back.

I stand alone half-naked in the cold flat. It is dark.

You reach out for me in your sleep. Notice I am not there. Your sleepy eyes search for me. Smile when they find me. You mumble something about me being right and take off your jeans. Open the bed covers and crawl in. You pat a space next to you, make room for me under your arm. I fit.

You kiss me on the lips. So soft, gentle. Sleepy. You kiss me on my forehead. Fall asleep again.

It's morning. When I open my eyes, you're standing there, your back turned to me. A few feet away in what must be the so-called kitchen of this pathetic excuse of a flat.

You haven't dressed yet.

Firm buttocks. The way your back spreads out towards your strong shoulders is beautiful. I could almost touch you. Don't want to disturb the view.

You turn around. Notice I am awake. There's a shy smile on your lips. I know I am beaming.

Move, lie on my side, back against the wall. There is room for you.

You sit on the bed nervously. I am nervous too. But I don't care.

Take off your t-shirt. Chuck mine on the floor. Touch your back. Let my hand follow along your shoulders, your shoulder blades. Kiss your neck.

You face me. I can see the decision on your face.

I lie on my back. You lie down next to me. On top of me. Caress my face.

What will happen next?

Now I hesitate. Worry. Now you know what to do.

You kiss me. Your lips are not sleepy anymore. They are wide awake. They guide my lips. I let them. I want to learn. Teach me.

You chuckle.  
"I'm afraid we'll have to teach each other, love. This is new for me too."

Wasn't sure. You've been to the army. Wasn't sure. Didn't think of it before. It doesn't matter. It can't be that different, can it? Same thing, different set. You laugh again.

I make you laugh. Were you always this happy? No. I am sure I have made you happy. Sure I have made you miserable.

"We'll just have to find out," you say when you stroke me over my undies.

Feel your palm against me. I am hard. Your touch is eager. Can't focus on kissing, can only feel. You don't seem to mind as your lips move from mine, along my neck.

Your hand eases the waist of my pants. I raise my hips, help you slide them lower. Your hand wraps around me.

A strange sound of gasps and moans. Realise it's me.

Your mouth has found my chest, a tongue brushes my nipple, a hand strokes my cock. Your teeth, a passing nibble on my flank. Your thumb travels over my glans. Sends a shudder over me.

Knew you would know what to do.

My skin becomes oversensitive. Your touch, your breath on it conducts heated, agitated messages to my brain. Feelings converge, bump into each other, gain mass.

You kiss my abdomen, your hand is on me, pulling me. It burns.

My body is a furnace of sensation.

I can't take it. Need air.

I push you away, sit up. Take deep breaths.

You look worried. Guilty.

I take your hand in mine to tell you I'll be alright. You hold on to it so gently, like you were afraid it might break.

"I won't break."

You smile in relief.

"Good. I'm sorry, I – "

No, I won't let you finish. There's no reason for you to be sorry. I feel better.

Take your face between my hands. Kiss you carefully. You close your eyes.

The smile on your lips lingers.

I do want you.

You lie on your back. I get on top of you. Take off your undies. And mine.

I look at you. It makes you feel uncomfortable.

I tell you to close your eyes if it bothers you. You won't.

You watch me watching you. You're naked, exposed. For me. I rest my hands on your chest.

Your penis stands out. It is the first thing the eye catches. However banal that might be. The hair around it is paler than on your head, almost golden curls surround it.

I take you in my hand. Hold you. You bite your lip. Close your eyes. Open your eyes. You see me.

My forefinger follows the length of you. A sudden urge to eat you.

No need to try to resist.

Lean down. You know what's coming, curse.

I hope to be able to surprise you one day. To catch up with you, to go past.

To be your first.

I lick the tip of you. Taste you. Taste your wet.

You mutter my name. Try to steady your breathing. Try to calm down.

I lick the length of you. Want to feel you in my mouth.

Take you in. Not sure what to do, how to do it. Did I just graze you with my teeth?

I stroke you with my tongue. Pull out.

"I have no idea what I'm doing," I say. It's a statement of fact. I'm not embarrassed.

You chuckle.  
"Noticed. Never mind, we'll practise."

I kiss you on the lips. Love it when you are happy. It makes you look so good.

Press my hips against you. You buck up yours against me. I want you.

Your kisses are hungry, like you'd want to devour me.

Your hands hold on to my buttocks, fingers digging in, to hold me close to you, closer.

My tongue in your mouth.

I press your shoulders down. Kiss your neck slowly. You curse profoundly. You want to come.

You can't. Not yet. I'm not ready.

You bite your fist. Your nipple is hard in my mouth. You are shaking when my hands caress your sides.

My stomach is wet from precum. I taste it on you. Lick it off you.

Press my face against you, inhale you. Know for certain I can never get enough of you.

Bite you for real in anger for being so much, more than I can take.

I wrap my fist around you, jerk you.

Align our hips.

Align our cocks.

You take a hold of me, ease my palm, arrange our hands around both our cocks. Panting, moaning. I want to kiss you. I do. Can't focus on it.

Press my lips, my face against your neck. Shiver. Curse.

Ah.

You arch, your neck tilts back. You say my name.

I collapse on you. Your arms around me.

The wet smear between us.

You caress my back. Am I still trembling?

I roll to my side. Feel your kisses on my face.

So much happiness I want to shout.

The bed is narrow. We are sweaty, dirty. My leg falls over. There is a draft on the floor. No carpet.

Someone is pounding the wall on the other side. Telling us nasty poofters to shut it. That they don't want to hear our perverted, filthy buggering.

"John, your flat is utter _shit_."

You bang on the wall absent-mindedly. The noise on the other side stops.

"Mmm," you ruffle my hair.

"Move back to Baker Street with me?"

"Of course."

Of course. I knew you would understand.


End file.
